


tonight i can write the saddest lines

by Ahigheroctave



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Inspired by Poetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahigheroctave/pseuds/Ahigheroctave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tonight i can write the saddest lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forcynics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/gifts).



> Written for cassiehayes at the Merrier the More ficathon. The prompt was "I can write the saddest poem of all tonight/I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too".

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.  
  
x  
  
Stefan writes of Elena.  
  
For centuries he has lived in secret, or something like it. For years he has atoned for his sins. Fod months he has watched her. Forever he will love her. There are things between the lines, before the story, and quite possibly after, that he would rather not have on paper.  
  
A devilishly handsome brother, who is older and much less wise, that he just can’t manage not to rescue. Psychologists would conduct field studies on the unhealthy emotional attachment, about the foreplay-like sparring (about the fact that they, time and again, can’t help but share the same girls).  
  
A rogue demon, who sinks her fangs and her claws into his life, and uses her compulsion to draw love out of him just like she does to force feed him blood (there is the bright, luminescent moon and shots fired and death, and maybe she does love him, but he can forget it. There are some things it’s easier to forget).  
  
Elena is the sun. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already pale and sick.  
  
x  
  
 _Tonight I can write the saddest lines,_  
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.  
  
x  
  
Stefan and Elena are people of prose. They are a question mark slipped in at the very start through bared teeth and bloodlines; a pair of parentheses slipped in for every lie, every omission, every half-truth. An exclamation mark for all the declarations of love and the countless pleads not to leave. They are always a half-finished story. It’s an easy choice, to be with Stefan.  
  
Stefan is a comma in an unturned phrase.  
  
Damon is prose. He does not waste his time in a long story with very little meaning. He loves Katherine. Period. And he will spend his whole afterlife loving her.  
  
x  
  
 _Tonight I can write the saddest lines._  
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.  
  
x  
  
Katherine has spent her whole life and death being chased.  
  
She thinks dully about it as she stabs John Gilbert in his family’s kitchen, as she watches another message in blood seep into the floor. This is just enough violent red, she thinks, that even Damon Salvatore might understand it.  
  
She walks out and ponders how different her life could have been, if she had not been the beautiful young Petrova doppelganger with the sensitive brown eyes and the shining hair and the cursed blood. She could have spent her life staying still.  
  
She ponders -- once in a bedroom with Mason Lockwood when getting the moonstone was still important -- that she would have preferred to die still. That the world of death suits her, threats and follow-throughs alike slipping right off her tongue and sinking into skin with a vicious crunch.  
  
She lies in the corner of a motel room, on the run again. Later she will deny even thinking it, that she would have liked to stay in 1865: A beautiful imprint on a hot southern plantation, floating through the grounds in a puffy dress and a genuine smile on her face. The brother who loved her too much and the one who didn’t love her enough, both hot on her tail.  
  
Elena doesn’t believe her later, when she says she loved them both.  
  
Its better this way, Katherine doesn’t have to compulse her to forget.  
  
x  
  
 _Love is short, forgetting is so long._  
  
x

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry excerpts from Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda, and at the end of Stefan’s paragraph there is a brief misquote from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I do not own them, I am not nearly that brilliant.


End file.
